


By My Love, By My Passion

by perictione (leclairage)



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Canon-Typical Dramatics, Decor Optimized for Instagram, Extra Soft Fluff, M/M, Megatron Attempts Romance, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Optimus Prime Does Not Get Any Memos, Post-War, Wedding, offscreen sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28482951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leclairage/pseuds/perictione
Summary: “We are gathered here to invest this mech with the powers and responsibilities of the Lord High Protector of Cybertron, the Chosen of the Chosen, the Prime’s Consort.”
Relationships: Megatron/Optimus Prime
Comments: 29
Kudos: 207
Collections: Secret Solenoid '20-'21





	By My Love, By My Passion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [prisonmechanic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/prisonmechanic/gifts).



Small, glowing clusters of crystals lined the stairs. Several on each step, in blue and mauve and white, and all of them fresh and enthusiastically branching. There were so _many_ of them. 

Optimus had been braced for an onslaught of memories when he’d entered the Hall of Records for this meeting, but he’d forgotten everything else in the light of the display. It made the space feel blissfully unfamiliar. The lights were low, if they were on at all, and gently pulsing colors threw a cool glow over everything Optimus could see. 

Now that he considered, it seemed that all the debris had been cleared out of the ground floor. The last time he’d been here, truly a lifetime ago, shelves and parts of the walls and ceiling had been scattered everywhere, leftover from the early destruction of the war. He could have sworn no reconstruction had been done yet. Doing something to improve the Hall of Records had been on his mind, but their planet’s other, more imminent needs had taken priority. 

Optimus realized that he had been afraid, coming in here. He hadn’t known how afraid, until he was standing here, unafraid. The atmosphere was so different, and so delightful.

The delicate crystals flickered arrhythmically. Optimus went closer.

The grand spiral staircase which they adorned was miraculously intact. It was wide enough to accommodate the Archive’s many patrons, or the crowds at shift change, and carved out of valuable stone like the rest of the two main rooms. The decoration kept going, all the way up and around the gentle curve past where Optimus could see. He took one step. Then another. The crystals cast shadows on the high wall that embraced the staircase, and the murals spanning it glittered. Optimus could almost imagine that the damaged places were intact again. Light shifted across his plating, buffed and shined for the occasion, and cast blue armor into shades of teal and purple. His pedes were so very big for these steps now. Not _too_ big, but he had to pay particular attention. Was this how Megatronus had felt walking up these stairs that first time?

A quiet _clunk_ came from behind him, and Optimus remembered that he wasn’t alone. 

“Is there something you aren’t telling me, Optimus?” He turned to see Ratchet scowling, hands propped on his hips. “What kind of _ceremony_ is this?”

“The investiture of the Lord High Protector. A legal formality,” Optimus said absently, his eye catching on a particularly pleasing collection of crystals one step down. At least, it was a legal formality in their current circumstances. “I admit, I was not expecting the decor.”

In the far distant past, this event would have been a lavish celebration, and the ceremony itself full of personal and spiritual significance. The Matrix held the fuzzy, joyful memories of past Primes accepting and giving these oaths, and Optimus had done his own research when they’d first decided to put Megatron into this role. Sometimes, the investiture did more than simply bestow the title of Protector. Actually, it usually did more. Usually a Prime found, via the Matrix, a Protector and a _conjunx_ all in one. But not always. There was plenty of precedent for a platonic Protectorship, and the ceremony need not include those more personal elements. 

Optimus had hoped...but, as Megatron had made quite clear, a personal element was not to be expected from this relationship. 

“You don’t think it could be a trap?”

“If the Decepticons were going to break the treaty and attack me, it stands to reason they could do it much more easily than this,” Optimus said, ascending another few steps. “I already see Megatron nearly every day.” Nearly every day, Megatron might casually touch him. Nearly every day, looking into Megatron’s optics a little too long. Nearly every day, another agony of what could never be. 

There had been one night. One awful night, early on. The night before they’d signed the treaty, in fact. Optimus had thought—well. Optimus had thought a lot of things. That night, one barely-there look from Megatron had been all it took to convince Optimus to make an approach. So he’d invited him back to his apartments. 

They had interfaced. 

At the time, it had been everything he thought he wanted. Optimus had begged without shame. He’d responded to even the smallest touch with burning need. He’d given everything he had in an ecstasy of hope and self-destruction. But Megatron’s interest had been fleeting, if he had really been interested at all. Now Optimus could only think of that night with embarrassment and humiliation. 

And Optimus still had to work with him. 

They’d gone to fuel together again last week, to talk about this ceremony. It had been delicious, at Cybertron’s first new restaurant. Optimus had managed not to mention the last time they’d been in a restaurant together, even though everything Megatron did reminded him of Megatronus. Megatron had even ordered the same thing—without bothering to check if it was on the menu. But Megatron himself didn’t seem to notice the parallels. 

Maybe he simply didn’t remember his last night out with Orion Pax. 

Optimus was foolish to think so much about a routine dinner with the Lord High Protector, even if that title did still feel so new. Really, it had practically been a work meeting. Megatron had talked about the necessity of the investiture with his usual unnecessary ominousness. Optimus had just narrowly avoided brushing their hands together—he had to be always vigilant, since Megatron insisted on taking up all the space he could, whatever the situation—when Megatron had said, “I see you want to wait until it’s all official. Make me go through all the formalities before we move past this stage?” Megatron had gestured at the table, and sipped at his glass of engex slowly, carefully, in that distracting way that Optimus tried to avoid staring at. “It hardly matters next to the treaty… But if you’re expecting me to balk at putting my seal on our relationship—” by which Megatron of course had meant their relationship as co-rulers, Optimus always had to remind himself “—then you’re wrong, Prime.”

It was true that holding the investiture wasn’t especially important. Megatron’s taking the title was a condition of the treaty itself. After they’d made the announcement, no one had suggested that Megatron was less than the true Lord High Protector just because they hadn’t legally sealed the oaths in a traditional ceremony. 

The worst part of peace—and even for this Optimus was grateful—was how he continually realized, over and over, how very deeply he wanted what he could not have. 

“And this doesn’t seem at all suspicious to you?” Ratchet followed up.

“Perhaps Starscream has tried event planning again.” Optimus rather hoped not. The treaty signing had been...unique. 

“This isn’t Starscream’s style. Too restrained, and too creepy,” Ratchet grumbled. 

“I think the crystal light is very beautiful, actually,” Optimus said. He did. It made him feel less wretched. He’d always liked crystals. Once, he’d taken Megatronus to one of Iacon’s crystal gardens, and they’d stayed for hours—

No, best not think of that. The time for hope was over, though it was difficult not to think of the past now, when the threat of violence was no longer taking up so much space in his processor. 

The shifting colors tempted him up the steps. He touched one handrail, just barely skimming it with his fingertips and neatly avoiding a gash in the metal. It wasn’t slickly polished anymore, but Optimus felt an almost-echo of sense memory. He used to absently drag his hand along the rail to feel the pleasant cool texture on his way to duty at the front desk. 

He remembered Megatronus, when he’d once surprised Orion at work, waiting for him, leaning over his workstation and winking at him as Orion fumbled the stack of datapads he’d been carrying.

“Who picked this place, anyway?” Ratchet asked.

“Megatron did,” he murmured back. He kept climbing the stairs.

“Look, Optimus, wait.”

“Yes?” He turned again.

“Just, look—are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes. But you know that he is already Lord High Protector in all the ways that matter.”

“Urgh.” Ratchet made a face. “Don’t remind me. But I meant for _you_. Oaths before Primus might not mean anything to _him_ , but I know they mean something to you. Even if it is ‘just a formality.’”

“Ratchet, please trust that I know what I am doing,” Optimus said, patiently.

Ratchet opened his mouth, and Optimus waited for him to raise some other objection, but he only closed it again with a grimace. The medic waved him on with a tired hand gesture.

Optimus climbed faster now, suddenly ready to get on with it, until he was around the curve of the stairs and facing the magnificent twin doors he’d walked through every day for years. They’d been enormous when he’d been young, but even now they soared high above his head. He heard Ratchet hurrying up after him. He barely looked at the motifs that decorated the doors—probably defaced—and grabbed the two recessed handholds and pulled. 

When he was an archivist, they’d opened for him automatically, but that mechanism was probably damaged. It had been in the habit of breaking, and on those occasions his younger self had needed to pull with all his weight on one door at a time to manage them. Now his added strength and mass made it easy.

Once those two pieces of old grandeur were out of the way, he looked up, and stopped.

The front desk was a curved half circle that covered the entire opposite wall. There was one hole in the circle, where something heavy fallen from the ceiling had smashed through a workstation—a workstation he himself had probably stood behind many times. The space behind the front desk was in deep shadow, but Optimus knew where the doors and lifts and banks of retrieval shelves would be. On the floor in a path leading to the desk were more lines of crystals, some bigger now, and in more colors. On the desk itself, the smooth, fine stone of it’s surface reflecting softly, was another riot of luminescent crystals. They ran all along the great semicircle, throwing light into the open space in the center—where Megatron stood, waiting. 

His gray plating was polished to a shine Optimus had never seen before, accepting the colors of the crystals almost like a mirror. Megatron had left off the cloak of office that he so often wore, both in public and in private—though of course that would be returned during the ceremony. He straightened as Optimus entered, lifting his chin and staring seriously at him. 

He looked magnificent. 

Optimus hesitated on the threshold, minutely. Why had Megatron put in so much effort? It really _was_ just a legal formality. It wasn’t even public. Optimus had worked his plating up to a decent shine, of course, but he did that any time he expected to see Megatron in close quarters. 

Looking his best had seemed one way to recover his dignity after that humiliating night before the treaty signing. 

But maybe the ceremony would be recorded? Ultra Magnus and Starscream normally took charge of bureaucratic details of that kind—not that they ever agreed on anything—so maybe one of them had insisted. When Optimus managed to tear his optics away from Megatron’s impressive figure, he realized both of them were present, off to one side of the room with Soundwave. The fact that no one else was present was a little surprising. 

Still, it hardly mattered. 

Optimus strode forward into the room he knew so well, and didn’t stop until he was at Megatron’s side. 

Politely, he said, “You look nice.”

“And you, as always, never disappoint,” Megatron replied, giving him a lingering look up and down that left Optimus feeling hot with humiliation. 

The mocking looks really weren’t necessary. They both knew what had happened, and it had been...a mistake, but Optimus was doing everything he could to remain professional. Megatron would have to tire of the game eventually. 

He turned away from Megatron’s smug look to Ultra Magnus. Pitching his voice louder to reach across the large space, he said, “Are we ready to begin?”

“Yes, sir,” came the practiced response from his second in command.

“Eager?” murmured Megatron. When Optimus did not distinguish that with a reply, he continued, “Well, I have no objection to starting right away.”

He gestured imperiously at Ultra Magnus, who was busily approaching Ratchet and directing him somewhere. Optimus’s attention was distracted by the flash of Megatron’s plating, and then by his words. 

“So, my dear Optimus, do you like what I’ve done with the place?” Megatron’s grin suggested that he was expecting Optimus to hate the new additions to the decor.

“I do like it,” Optimus said truthfully. “The crystals are very beautiful. It is almost a different building.”

And Megatron actually smiled then, a real smile. “A new beginning for something full of history, to match our own new beginning,” he said.

Optimus blinked. Would there ever come a day when Megatron wasn’t cryptic?

And then Ultra Magnus was upon them, directing everyone to particular places: Megatron on his right, Optimus on his left, with Soundwave and Ratchet arranged farther back on either side by faction. Starscream glared, surveying the scene from over the by doors, and calling out occasional instructions on symmetrical positioning. He was in fact holding something that looked like recording equipment. Optimus realized that Magnus had set down several objects behind himself—two bowls, and a flash of lush, purple metalmesh that Optimus recognized as Megatron’s mantle of office. 

But surely Magnus had pared down some of the more symbolic elements of the ceremony? Optimus tilted his head to see and identified glowing energon in one bowl and the silver sheen of paint in another. Of course, they’d need the cloak to finish the ceremony, but _surely_ Magnus would have known to eliminate the energon ritual, at least? It was lifted almost exactly from the traditional conjunx ritus. 

Optimus’s spark danced erratically in its casing. 

He glanced at Megatron, who didn’t seem to have noticed the bowls—or if he had, didn’t care. 

Optimus would rather not put himself through the agony of Megatron sham-performing an intimate romantic ritual with him. He would _much_ prefer not to do that. But as he had told Ratchet, it didn’t _matter._ It was just a formality, and Optimus would endure it, and then forget it as quickly as possible. One more on the list of things not to think of, after that night.

He turned to face Megatron and didn’t flinch from his optics, even as they pierced him. 

Ultra Magnus began. He said, referring to a datapad, “We are gathered here to invest this mech with the powers and responsibilities of the Lord High Protector of Cybertron, the Chosen of the Chosen, the Prime’s Consort.”

Optimus did not flinch at the ironic list of titles. He’d had practice.

“Megatron,” Magnus continued, dropping the title ‘Lord’ from his address, “You stand in the light of Primus. Do you come here of your own will, without coercion?”

“I do.” 

“Megatron, you stand in the light of Primus. How do you plead your worth?” 

“I plead by my might and by my cunning. I am a gladiator of Kaon. I am the leader of an empire that spanned the galaxy. For thousands of years, anyone who lays hands on Optimus Prime has met my sword. Was it not I who defied the will of the Chaos Bringer himself to protect the Chosen of Primus? None can stand against me.”

That was certainly one way to interpret Megatron’s long-standing policy of insisting on being the only one ‘allowed’ to make attempts on his life. Ultra Magnus looked briefly like he might sigh, but he held his composure and kept going.

“Megatron, you stand in the light of Primus. How do you plead your devotion?”

Optimus’s only betrayal of surprise at that question was a slow blink. They didn’t _need_ this part of the ceremony. They’d skipped the communion with the Matrix in the no-longer-standing Temple of Primus without even a mention, why leavethis in? Not that Megatron couldn’t simply draw on one of several historical examples of platonic responses—

Megatron didn’t seem at all surprised by the question. Optics still locked on Optimus’s face, he didn’t hesitate before saying,“I plead by my love for the mech, Orion Pax, and by my passion for the Chosen of Primus, Optimus, Prime of Cybertron.”

Optimus did flinch, then. He flinched hard.

Somewhere behind him Ratchet choked. Before Optimus could gather himself from the shock enough to say anything, Starscream’s voice rose shrilly from the other side of the room. "Can he use the same mech for both?" Starscream asked.

_By my love for the mech, Orion Pax..._

Ultra Magnus frowned in Optimus’s peripheral vision. “It fits the form. And it’s not the most non-traditional plea ever entered. Available records have it that Heliophon cited his love for his existing conjunx and his passion for Cybertron itself. Protector Stele pled his love for Primus—a surprisingly popular choice—but only his _respect_ for the Prime. Of course, Lord High Protector Stele was—”

“We get it,” Starscream said.

“Enough of these interruptions,” Megatron demanded. “Continue.”

Optimus could do nothing but stare at him. 

_By my passion for the Chosen of Primus…_

It had to be some new mockery. It _had_ to be. He must mean his—his _dead_ love for Orion, and his passionate _hatred_ of Optimus—

Ultra Magnus cleared his vocalizer. “Megatron, you stand in the light of Primus. Why have you come?”

Did Megatron truly want to hurt him so much? Optimus had personally done the research to find a less personal but still legally admissible alternative to the traditional form—

Megatron answered, “I have come to swear myself to the protection of Cybertron and to the protection of Optimus, the Chosen of Primus.” And Megatron smiled then, right at him. The soft glow of the crystal light fluttered over his face. “I have come because of the passion that survived the crucible of war. I have come because I have followed Optimus Prime across the universe, rather than be parted. I have come to be bonded to the other half of my spark.”

Optimus’s finials flicked back fast enough they made a little _swish_ in the air. A weak, grinding noise emerged involuntarily from his vocalizer. And then, Ultra Magnus just kept _going,_ as if that answer had been _expected._ “Optimus Prime, Chosen of Primus, you stand in the—”

“No,” Optimus said. “No, no. Wait. _Wait_.”

Megatron stiffened, his back straightening as his smile disappeared. Optimus hesitated, glancing at Ultra Magnus, but decided that he had to ignore their audience. He vaguely noticed Soundwave walking somewhere in his peripheral vision, and he heard Starscream’s quiet, malicious chuckle. Ratchet was suspiciously silent, but it didn’t _matter_ , none of them mattered. 

He couldn’t hope. He couldn’t. He didn’t _dare_. 

“I know that you do not love me,” Optimus forced himself to say, trying to keep his voice low enough that the whole room wouldn’t hear. “You made that quite clear. But I must insist that you not mock me.”

Megatron scowled at him, frame quite still. “If you are trying to back out, Prime, you hardly need some made up accusation—and of what, exactly, are accusing me?”

“I am not trying to back out,” Optimus whispered, holding Megatron’s gaze through sheer force of will. “I have been prepared to endure a certain amount of mockery after—after. But I will not allow you to add to my humiliation with false words of romance, as if in parody of a love match. I cannot—”

“False words? Your humiliation?” Megatron took him by both shoulders and stepped close enough to warm the air between them. “Optimus, are you ill?”

Optimus shook his head, trying to dispel the sense of unreality. “The things you said, they are not true. It is cruel—”

“What things?” Megatron said, disengaging one arm from Optimus’s person to wave Ultra Magnus several steps back. “As if I would risk invalidating the ceremony by lying. I stand in the light of Primus! What do you dare dispute?”

Optimus closed his optics then, in a truly unacceptable show of weakness, but he could not bear to say these things while looking at Megatron’s face. “You do not love me,” he said again. “You are not here to bond with—with the other half of your spark. You are not driven by some passion for me. We are not—” 

“We are not _what_?” Megatron hissed, and Optimus opened his optics again to see that scowl bearing down on him. “If you presume to tell me that we are not _lovers,_ then I can only say that _you_ are lying. Or do you not remember the night you spent in my arms not seven months ago?”

The night before they’d signed the treaty. Optimus did remember. Optimus remembered vividly. The things he’d said… the way he’d behaved… Megatron had not allowed him to forget, not even for a moment. 

“Of course I remember,” Optimus said, barely holding himself back from losing control of his voice. “You made your feelings on the matter quite clear when you disappeared from my berth without a word. You laughed in my face the next day.” He’d held onto hope that whole, awful day, watching for a whispered word, a meaningful message, a gentle look. For nothing. 

Megatron actually shook him then, by the shoulders. “What are you talking about? What laughter? You’re the one who’s been refusing my touch until I prove my commitment.” Megatron said in a vicious whisper, gesturing at the articles of ceremony around them. “If I’d had my way, we’d have been consumed by passion every night since. I suppose you think I’ve spent all these months bringing you fuel just to be kind to a work associate!”

Optimus felt a little unsteady on his feet as his reality matrix recalibrated. He shivered in Megatron’s hands, pulling together disparate pieces of data that he could not integrate. 

“You do not—” One of Megatron’s claws idly traced a seam on his back, oh so gently, and he had to shutter his optics against the sudden intensity of feeling. “You never—you—do you? Do you want—?” 

Could this truly be real?

He felt like he was standing on a precipice, that he’d climbed to a height he hadn’t known was there and at any moment he might trip and fall down, down, down.

And then Optimus was being pulled close, heedless of the watchers. One powerful arm slid over his waist and another enveloped his shoulders, hand resting on the back of his neck. His head was tucked down against the safety of Megatron’s shoulder and his own hands spread over the expanse of Megatron’s warm chest. That voice rumbled across his audial in a growl. “We’ve spent nearly every day together since that night,” Megatron whispered. “If I mentioned that night you drew back, but you still accepted my invitations, my gifts. When I looked at you, I saw you looking back. We spoke about the future, about this ceremony. How can you have mistaken my intentions?”

_Could this possibly be real?_

It hurt so much to think of it. Like his spark was trapped in a casing too small for it. Pain squeezed over his innermost self until he could feel it physically in his chest—to even consider that Megatron might not really have rejected, that Megatron might—might—

Two long claws stroked up one of Optimus’s finials, and for some reason the sensation went straight to his knees. He wobbled in the tight support of Megatron’s arms. Hope hammered in his spark chamber, mingled inextricably with the sharp anticipation of more pain. As he tried to recover something resembling dignity, he remembered all the other people who must still be in the room, and he stiffened. 

Turning his face more into the curve of Megatron’s neck, Optimus smelled the unfamiliar rich polish that had given him the pretty shine Optimus could feel, slick, under his fingers, and then the iron and hot oil that always marked Megatron. The faintest melody of a gladiator’s spark both soothed and terrified. 

Optimus said, voice unsteady, “I will not wait. Tell me. Tell me now.”

A deep, warm vent washed over him, like another layer to their embrace. And Megatron said, “I have followed you across the universe. No other has matched me, no other has enchanted me as you have. I have come here, to the place where we first met, to be joined to the other half of my spark. To _you._ ” Lips brushed the base of one of his audials, and in that charming, syrupy tone that sent Optimus in memory back to this very same room at the end of a long day, Megatron murmured to him, “I plead with you. By my love for Optimus. By my passion for Orion. Will you give yourself to me, at last? Will you be my conjunx?”

Optimus’s knees did go weak then, and he sagged into—into his _lover’s_ embrace, _oh_. The pain that had wrapped so tight around his spark coalesced and fell away in a glittering wash of agonized joy. He clutched at Megatron’s chest and pulled his head up, looking up into handsome red optics, wider than he thought he’d ever seen them. 

And Optimus decided that he believed him.

He pressed forward, letting his battlemask slide back. Megatron’s optics went soft and dim in that split second as he leaned in, and then they were kissing. Firm, scarred lips brushed his, immediately drowning him in a rush of memory and longing that Optimus had no capacity to resist, so he just lightly brushed his glossa against them. Megatron opened to him without hesitation or reserve, and Optimus pressed even closer, wrapping his arms around his neck, even as he felt the tips of claws slip down to grip tight against his hip. 

Optimus pulled back with a gasp to say, “Yes.” And then he pressed close again, a second gasp of ‘yes’ pushed into Megatron’s mouth, unable to bring himself to stop. “Yes, I will.” 

Megatron’s engine growled, and claws pricked one of Optimus’s hip flares, making him shiver. Another exquisite slide of their lips together, another brush of glossa, and Optimus’s reality matrix integrated data he hadn’t absorbed before and he had to break away suddenly, as much as he could bear, to say, “This—this is the place we first—and you did this? All these crystals? For me?” 

“You’ve always loved crystals,” Megatron said, smirking against his lips. 

“I have—oh, Megatron, it is so beautiful. Thank you.” And he kissed him again. 

Megatron hummed into their kiss and said, “Tell me again.”

“Tell you what?”

“That you’ll be mine.”

Optimus smiled, giddily, and whispered against the corner of his mouth, “I will be yours. I will be your conjunx.” Megatron sighed against him, satisfied.

Optimus was fully prepared to lose himself in the kiss again, possibly forever, when there was an almighty crash behind them, and he couldn’t forget the presence of the others in the room any longer. He still didn’t want to leave the circle of Megatron’s arms, as if stepping away would send him back to the reality of an hour ago. Instead he simply turned, letting Megatron’s arms shift to cover his chest and abdomen. 

And Ratchet and Soundwave were—embracing? 

No. Not embracing. Soundwave’s cables were retreating from around Ratchet’s face, and he was saying, “Oh, get off me, you tin-plated octopus!” 

Was that a bite mark on one of Soundwave’s cables?

Ratchet glared at everyone, and then specifically at Megatron and Optimus, and said, “So. You’re back together.” 

He obviously wasn’t pleased—either about being gagged or about Optimus rekindling his relationship with Megatron. But he would surely come around. He always did. So Optimus smiled, with all the beatific happiness filling his spark, and said, “Yes.” 

Megatron just chuckled, sounding sinister and happy in his audial.

Ratchet glared some more, and harrumphed, and grumbled out, “I told you something was off about this ceremony.”

“Yes, you did tell me.” Optimus smiled some more, turning his head to look at Megatron. “Fortunately, it was a very welcome surprise.” His _promised conjunx_ , and how he cherished the privilege of even thinking that phrase, stroked the back of his claws over Optimus’s abdominal vents in an affectionate caress.

At that point, Ultra Magnus coughed delicately. 

“Will we be continuing the ceremony?”

  


* * *

  


They did continue the ceremony. 

Optimus might have objected, might have wanted to savor this moment of being betrothed somewhat longer, but when presented with a setting and context beyond his wildest imaginings— never mind the compelling way Megatron was looking at him from under his optic ridges, like he was cheerfully devouring Optimus with optics alone—well. 

How could he wait?

And then, there was some impatience, some greedy feeling in him, as if waiting another day, another hour would lose him his chance. His chance for happiness. He didn’t doubt what was happening anymore, but he felt greedy to have the fait accompli before him. To have Megatron _prove_ that he really meant ‘you’ and ‘forever’ by doing it _right now_.

Optimus didn’t even worry about not being prepared. 

They flew through the plea acceptance on a tidal wave of happiness. The oaths passed the same way, Megatron reciting them with pure confidence. 

When they reached the energon ritual, Optimus remembered the information he’d tried to skip over in his research. In acknowledgement of the unique relationship between Prime and Protector, the investiture made changes to the typical conjunx ritus.

Lifting up the bowl of energon, Magnus said, “This energon is the fountain of life, of fuel and of support. It symbolizes the life you will share together, intermingled and indivisible. In the light of Primus, Megatron, take this cup, and give it as a symbol of your protection in all things, from sustenance to—”

“Ultra Magnus, please use the words of the normal ritus for this,” Optimus said, impulsive.

As Magnus reoriented himself, Megatron took one of Optimus’s hands and raised it to his lips for a brief kiss. 

“This energon is the fountain of life,” Magnus began again, “of fuel and of support. By sharing this cup, your lives are intermingled and indivisible. In the light of Primus, Optimus, Megatron, take this cup and give it to the other, as a symbol of your support and care in all things.”

Megatron accepted the bowl from Magnus’s hands, and raised it to Optimus’s lips, steadying him with one hand on the back of his neck, and gently tilted it until Optimus had taken a swallow of the energon within. Then Optimus took the bowl, and fueled Megatron in return. 

Each step of the ceremony brought Optimus to a higher peak of confidence and joy. The glyph ritual followed this, and when Optimus accepted the second bowl, full of silver liquid, from Ultra Magnus, he hesitated, deciding. In the old days—so old they were almost myth—the paint in this bowl would have been liquid platinum, quite permanent, and probably quite painful. This modern, silver solution would fade to the visible spectrum within days, until it was only a pattern of radioactive isotropes. Difficult to remove, but not quite permanent.

He dipped one finger into the paint, and carefully drew the glyph that belonged only to the Lord High Protector in the space above the Decepticon brand on Megatron’s chest. If he had been a normal mechanism, the glyph he’d just written would have been a carefully chosen symbol of their love. The glimmer of _Lord High Protector_ painted on Megatron’s beautiful chest plate looked like peace and hope and the future, but... 

Ultra Magnus began speaking the next words of the ceremony. 

Optimus said, “Wait,” and refreshed his fingertip with more paint. 

With a careful glance up to Megatron’s optics, Optimus wrote another two glyphs, below the brand this time. As he finished he read them aloud, softly, “‘Beloved champion,’” and delighted when he saw Megatron’s optics go soft and sweet. 

He stalled Ultra Magnus again, and passed the bowl to Megatron. The gladiator stared down at the pool of silver color and then back at Optimus’s face, as if in question. Optimus murmured, “I know it’s not traditional, but...I want to belong to you as much as you belong to me.”

Megatron smiled at him, and Optimus knew that no sunrise would ever look as welcome.

Soon, Megatron’s mark was drying on Optimus’s plating, and he almost didn’t care what the glyphs Megatron had written even were he was so happy—until Megatron leaned close and told him, “‘Precious archivist.’” Then Optimus thought his spark might dance out of his chest. 

Still leaning close, Megatron spoke in a hushed tone, “Optimus, as a second mark, would you accept my symbol?” He tapped the Decepticon brand on his chest. 

A thousand considerations flashed through Optimus’s processor, but selfishness prevailed. 

“I would be proud,” he said, and knew he’d chosen rightly when he saw Megatron shiver all over. 

Soon Optimus was picking up the Protector’s mantle. It wasn’t the traditional Lord High Protector’s cloak, lost even before the war, but one newly fabricated for the purpose in fine purple metalmesh. 

Megatron bent gracefully at the waist so Optimus could swing the cloak over his shoulders. He fastened the two silver clasps magnetically on either shoulder.

“Rise in the light of Primus, Megatron, Lord High Protector, Chosen of the Chosen, Prime’s Consort.” 

Optimus tried not to look too flustered as Megatron straightened up, looking unfairly handsome. Crystal light played over the shine of his plating, the shadows made more dramatic by the sweep of the cloak at his back. 

Under the next words of the ceremony that Ultra Magnus was speaking, Optimus said sotto voce, “My Lord.”

Megatron’s optics flashed, then narrowed over a self-satisfied smile that Optimus couldn’t help mirroring. Though they had so recently kissed, Optimus found himself longing to be back in Megatron’s arms. So many months gone, when he could have had this all the time. He’d thought his own story would always have a bittersweet taste—he hardly knew how to feel when faced with an ending this sweet. 

There was only one more step to the ceremony before Optimus could kiss him again. 

Magnus presented the documents to them to seal with their personal encryptions. And it was done.

“Together forever after are you, Optimus Prime and Lord Megatron, intermingled and indivisible, as one spark,” said Ultra Magnus. “In the light of Primus and by your oaths, you are now conjunx endurae.”

Megatron moved first. Before Optimus could blink Megatron was wrapped around him, nearly lifting him off his feet, pulling him close for a shockingly soft kiss. His first kiss with his conjunx. Past the rushing in his audials, he could hear Soundwave playing an applause track, and the general clapping of their guests. He smiled against Megatron’s lips. 

When they parted, Optimus lingered close, enchanted. “Journeys really do end in lovers meeting,” he murmured.

A smirk curved Megatron’s face, and he cradled Optimus’s helm in one hand. 

“Oh, my dear Optimus, this is only the beginning.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for the Secret Solenoid gift exchange! I hope you love it, prisonmechanic! 
> 
> Huge thanks to [RHplus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RHplus/works) for betaing this fic on deadline. I love comments so much, so I will definitely love yours—let me know what you think! Find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/perictione1), and [tumblr](https://perictione.tumblr.com), and [dreamwidth](https://leclairage.dreamwidth.org)!


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